


The Strangeling of Midsomer Mere

by clarnicamhalai



Series: Midsomer Magic [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Muggle/Wizard Relations, Underage rape/non-con (historical), can be read as pre-relationship, incest (historical), when muggles get involved in wizarding crimes, young officers butting heads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 17:45:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19137598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarnicamhalai/pseuds/clarnicamhalai
Summary: DS Gavin Troy finds giving up an inexplicable case to the so-called 'special branch' a bitter pill to swallow. Muggle Liaison Officer Hermione Granger has enough on her plate without the muggle police sniffing around her as she tries to solve a murder.





	The Strangeling of Midsomer Mere

**Author's Note:**

> This got way away from me and was both years and days in the making, because while I wrote chunks at a time, they were written years apart! I lost control of it for a while and hence it end up with some darker content than I originally planned for, but that was somehow the only way my brain could tie up the loose ends in in the story. It's not perfect, but then is anything? Unbeta'd, although I have read it in pieces a thousand times, so hopefully it's not a complete disaster.

“What _is_ it?”

Barnaby, squatting beside the deceased for a closer look, couldn’t answer his detective inspector. The creature – found dead on the bank of Midsomer Mere – looked more like a beast out of local folklore than any native animal. It certainly had humanesque features, but it seemed equally as amphibious in appearance, with green-tinged skin that bled into areas of dark grey and a pair of bulbous, yellowy eyes. “Frankly, Troy, I’ve no bloody clue,” he expostulated finally, shaking his head as he stood up.

Troy used a pen to move the tangle weed covering the creature’s face. “If it _was_ a person then they’ve been through some god-awful brand of torture.”

Barnaby exhaled loudly, looking up at the sound of footfalls on the embankment. “Perhaps George will be able to enlighten us – hullo, Doctor,” he said, greeting the incoming pathologist. Dr George Bullard had been involved with Causton CID since Barnaby’s primary posting, many years before, and had since become an integral member of the homicide team. Time and again he had provided them with the knowledge required to put a criminal behind bars.

“Tom,” the white-haired man called in greeting, offering his hand to shake. “Unusual case, I hear.”

“Very much so,” Barnaby confirmed, gesturing to the unidentifiable creature. “We’re hard-pressed to tell if it’s even human.”

The doctor gave a nod of acknowledgement to Troy before pulling on his gloves and squatting beside the object of interest. With great care he examined the body, unfazed by the policemen’s curious gazes.

A slight frown marred his forehead as he concluded his preliminary assessment. “Highly unusual,” he muttered, greatly troubled. To Barnaby, he noted, “Unless make up and prosthetics have suddenly advanced beyond belief, it appears to be human from the waist up, with an amphibious skin that excretes slime. The eyes aren’t quite right either, and the feet have indications of extreme webbing. I’ll let you know more details after a more thorough examination at the morgue, but at a preliminary glance the deceased appears to be half-man, half-frog.” He shrugged bewilderedly. “Inexplicable, but hopefully further tests will shed some light on the matter.” He stood. “Oh, yes – cause of death is likely to be the bullet wound to the chest, as I assume you’ve already guessed. No discrepancies there.”

“Half-frog?” Troy repeated, stunned. “But, sir – that’s ludicrous!”

“Indeed, it seems that way,” Barnaby agreed, looking equally disturbed. “But let’s not be too hasty – recall that we haven’t yet received all of the facts.”

+

Hermione batted her unruly hair out of her eyes and checked the address she’d been given by her boss; it was written on a corner-scrap of parchment, directing her to Causton CID in the southern county of Midsomer. The name written above it read _DCI Tom Barnaby_ and was followed by several phone numbers, but Hermione had felt it more proper to meet him face to face for their first encounter. Her boss had briefed him already on her purpose for coming, so it wasn’t going to be a complete surprise.

She’d been a part of DMLE for nearly three years, having trained as an Auror before eventually discovering her calling in the Muggle Liaison offices. It was hard work, requiring constant and flawless navigation of the many paragraphs and restrictions placed by the Statute of Secrecy, but it was fulfilling. She felt helpful. Plus, it brought both her worlds together, meaning she could keep up to date with happenings on both sides of the border.

Often, she found herself dealing with the muggle law enforcement system, what with accidental magic, breaches of the Statute, and rare bouts of muggle-baiting, but this was her first instance dealing with a homicide department and she was subsequently a little nervous.

The constabulary came into view and she was admitted after showing her Downing Street-authorised identity card (which claimed she was a government official in a special branch of the defence force) and shown to one of the interview rooms to await the DCI.

He was preceded by a young man with an earnest face and short brown hair who identified himself as Detective Inspector Gavin Troy – Barnaby’s regular partner. Hermione smiled perfunctorily at him before giving her attention to the older man.

“I understand you’re here about the apparent murder at Midsomer Mere, Miss…”

“Granger,” she offered, raising her ID.

Barnaby acknowledged her with a nod. “It’s rather strange,” he mused and Hermione gave him her undivided attention as Barnaby explained the circumstances in which the body was discovered, the facts as they stood, as well as the peculiarities they had thus far encountered. She listened attentively, formulating her own hypotheses regarding cause of death – by all accounts it appeared to be either spell damage or an illegally attempted animagus transformation; still, until she examined the body and went through the animagi register it would be difficult to come to an accurate conclusion.

As if he’d read her thoughts, Barnaby added, “I expect you’ll wish to see the body?”

She agreed that she would and went behind him out of the room, leaving Troy to make up the tail of the party.

They arrived after a short time at their destination and entered the morgue to find the body ready for them on the slab. The initial viewing didn’t take long, since Hermione couldn’t perform any post-mortem spells in the presence of muggles.

The dead wizard bore all the signs of an animagus transformation gone wrong; he was part-way between forms when his internal organs had begun to fail – his attempt had either taken too long, or he had neglected to change something important, thus far it was impossible to tell – it didn’t, however, explain the bullet that had, in fact, brought his suffering to an abrupt end.

Frankly, Hermione thought, a muggle had probably reacted to the bizarre, terrifying beast in the entirely natural manner of a hunter – they’d shot the beast before it could get close enough to hurt them.

Still, dead was dead and the perpetrator needed to be uncovered, if only to be subjected to a memory charm.

“Would you allow me five minutes, gentlemen?” she asked Barnaby. He acquiesced graciously, courtesy of her ‘special branch’ allocation, and led his DI from the room.

Alone with the deceased, Hermione furtively drew her wand and warded the room with a Notice-Me-Not charm so she could work without fear of being caught. The rest of spells were fast-acting, providing her with the necessary answers in no time at all. Privy now to the victim’s exact age, blood-type and a potential animagus form, she pulled a paper graced with a list of names from the folder she carried.

Flicking through the list, she came across a match.

Aster Ryecastle.

“Poor man,” Hermione said sympathetically to the corpse. “But we’ve said it over and over again, that all transformations are to be conducted in Wizarding areas only and all attempts must be presided over by a mentor.”

It was irresponsible to have attempted a transformation mentor-less, and in a muggle region to boot, and that, more than anything, irked Hermione tremendously. The rules were in place to keep everyone safe.

Still, the wizard had suffered dearly for his folly in the end.

She cancelled the Notice-Me-Not charm and moved to the door, opening it to find the two men waiting patiently in the corridor.

“I found a match with an individual on one of our more confidential records,” she informed the two muggles. “The man is a Mr Aster Ryecastle, formerly of Tuppet Wells. The body will be removed for further tests in the next day or two, once I alert my superiors.”

Troy looked startled. “You mean the case is being reassigned?”

“Naturally – he’s one of ours.” She turned to Troy, observing him properly for the first time. He was round-faced and grave and seemed discontent that the case was to be taken out of Causton’s governance. “I assure you, Detective Sergeant Troy, that we will not rest until the perpetrator has been discovered and events leading to death ascertained.”

+

“I don’t like this.”

Troy had waited until Miss Granger had exited the constabulary before voicing his concerns to Barnaby.

“Don’t like what exactly, Troy?”

“This so called ‘special branch’ waltzing in and taking our case. I mean, who was this bloke – he just happens to show up on a list she had with her? Bit too convenient, I think. Was he an experiment gone wrong? Escaped from some lab? Something about it doesn’t sit right with me, sir.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Miss Granger when she reappears.”

“I’ve never seen you so complacent about something this iffy.”

“I’ve dealt with this sort of special branch before. It was… enlightening, to say the least,” Barnaby told him. “Quite frankly, Troy, I’m glad they’re here to deal with these sorts of things. Some of the cases they sweep up would give even the hardiest detective nightmares.”

“Still,” Troy wheedled. “It feels dodgy. How old can that girl be? Twenty-one? And she’s dealing with this kind of thing? In a position of authority?”

“Her superiors advised me she is an exemplary member of the force. Unequalled, in fact.”

“And you believe them?”

Barnaby sat back, fingers linked as he rested them on his stomach. “Is there an alternative? The case is clearly beyond our scope.”

Troy scowled, but conceded – Barnaby was right.

Miss Granger had returned the following afternoon, requesting to see the crime scene. Barnaby had sent Troy out with her to investigate, much to the younger man’s ire.

“We’ve already scoured the area, you know,” he told her as they traipsed down to the water’s edge where the body had been found. An old woman had been walking her hyperactive Yorkshire terrier along the bank when they had made the gruesome discovery. Police had been called and a perimeter set up. And now this upstart young woman was demanding to see the space herself as if the work of their top officers left something to be desired. “All the information has been collated and added to the case file. It’s very thorough.”

“I’m sure it is,” Miss Granger agreed primly. “However, what I’m looking for is not something that would be recognisable to anyone except those trained in my department.”

She was looking the other away and Troy pettily mimed her words back at her bushy head. The whole situation had him riled up.

“We’re not just country bumpkins,” he told her. “You don’t have to redo the entire investigation.”

She turned around, exasperated. “Nobody ever said you were! We just happen to be dealing with something unique to the talents of those working in my team and as such we need to make sure nothing unobtrusive has been left out. Now, I understand that, for whatever reason, you’ve decided you don’t like me – and let me tell you, that isn’t a new feeling for me – but special branch is now in charge of this case. I’ll need and accept your help because, as much as I’d prefer to be doing this alone, it’s your patch and I’m unfamiliar with the area. Your assistance is much appreciated, but if you cannot handle it then have DCI Barnaby assign somebody else!”

Troy glowered when she turned away from him again. He wasn’t going to allow someone else to do this job. He didn’t trust this ‘special branch’, though everyone else at Causton CID seemed quite content to just abandon the case to them. He’d keep his mouth shut (mostly) and keep an eye on Miss Granger as best he could until he could figure out the niggle that left him feeling so suspicious.

“Aha!” Miss Granger exclaimed suddenly, the noise startling Troy enough that he lost his footing on the muddy bank and barely caught himself in time. His shoes were long past hope and mud coated his hands, but thankfully nothing had splattered onto his suit. His already sour mood went further south as he tried to wipe his hands clean on the grass before resorting to ruining his handkerchief.

“Okay, we’re done here,” Granger called.

“Are you going to tell me what you found?” he asked sullenly as he followed her back to the car.

“No,” came the glib reply. “It’s classified.”

The drove back to Causton in silence and parted ways, Troy intent on finding Barnaby to update him on this latest incident and Miss Granger to alert her superiors to the mysterious clue she’d apparently discovered at the mere.

+

Whatever the discovery had been, it had prompted an expansion of the active crime scene to include an abandoned house in Badger’s Drift. On their arrival, Troy had asked Miss Granger how she’d come to this conclusion.

“There was an old boot at the mere. It had traces of soil with specific levels of pH that linked it to this area,” she said very quickly as she stalked around the perimeter of the low stone wall that encircled the house. Troy looked at the death trap that was the old house. He couldn’t remember ever having seen the house before; perhaps it had just been so rundown that it had never commanded his attention until now. He thought about moving towards the gate, but suddenly remembered all the tasks sitting in his in-tray waiting to be actioned back at Causton; they were more important. He took a step back from the gate and the desire to leave lessened.

“Don’t cross this fence,” Granger called out in warning, her voice sharp. But Troy was now wondering about the boot, which, while it had been noted on the case file, had been ruled out as being too old and not relevant to the current case. Why had Miss Granger singled it out and led them to this ruin that looked as though it hadn’t been occupied in decades?

She walked through the little kissing gate and towards the front door and Troy called out, “I thought you said not to cross the fence line.”

“That was directed at you,” she called back.

A loud buzzing erupted right next to Troy’s ear and he didn’t hear the words Hermione called out to the house in general, too busy flailing away from what had to be the largest wasp ever to exist based on the noise – he hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of it before it had disappeared. He looked back at Granger and saw her pocketing a stick. She walked back to where he was waiting.

“It should be safe to enter; I think it’s been abandoned again. Send in some forensic officers just in case they can dig up any other leads. And I want to confirm whose name the title deeds are in – I’ll have my people check, too, in case it’s been restricted. For now, we might as well call it day.”

“You’re not going to go in? You don’t want to oversee in case anyone misses anything?” Troy said a little snarkily.

“Honestly,” Granger replied, cheeks flushing pink. “Your knickers are in such a twist. No, I’m not going in because your team are completely capable of casing this place without help. I was thinking I could maybe shout you a pint and answer some of the questions you’re obviously burning to ask me. No obligation though. Feel free to keep being abrasive and suspicious from a distance.”

It took the wind out of Troy’s indignation and he felt a fleeting glow of embarrassment.

“I mean,” Granger continued. “I can’t talk freely about everything, but I’ll do my best to clarify where I can. I can understand not liking losing the case to us, but it’s a necessity in this instance.”

Trying valiantly to appear as though he was not remotely discomfited in any way, Troy drove them to a small pub with an outdoor area; it was only just coming up to lunch and the weather was fair enough for them to take a seat outside, so they ordered some snacks and beverages and settled in the far corner away from any accidental eavesdroppers.

“So, ask away,” Granger offered, pushing her drink around the table in a little geometric pattern.

Troy hesitated, wondering where to start. “How old are you?” he asked finally. “You seem young to be in this role.”

“I’ll be twenty-three in September. Younger than the average department member, yes. But probably more experienced at this point.”

“How did that happen?”

She frowned momentarily, and he could see her trying to work out how best to answer. “I grew up in unique circumstances and it gave me a speed course in detective work and self-defence. It meant that I excelled in my basic training and the higher ups felt my talents could be better used in the special branch division. Their assumption proved correct.”

“I guess that ‘unique upbringing’ is classified?”

“You’d be right,” she said with an apologetic half-smile.

“You’re pretty good at answering without out actually saying anything. Keeping it nice and vague,” Troy commented, taking a swig of his beer.

“That was lesson 101 when I joined up.”

Troy pondered his next question. “What exactly is special branch – what kind of cases have you worked on prior to this?”

“Think of it this way: you have separate departments for homicide, drugs, traffic, etcetera, and we are just another department, but we deal with the things that don’t fall into any of the existing classifications. I’m sorry I can’t really elucidate much more on this, because you don’t have clearance, but do you remember the incidents a few years ago? The millennium bridge disaster, the assumed asphyxiation deaths of that family in Kent? We were called in for those and closed them. I worked the Kent case as a junior officer before I was assigned my current liaison role.”

“What were the conclusions?”

“That’s classified.”

Troy frowned this time. “This is my issue. You take these cases but then there’s no outcome. Or at least none that I can perceive. You say ‘oh, we closed them’, but there’s no evidence or arrest. Do you see why I’m so sceptical?”

Granger pursed her lips. “I get it. But there are arrests and there are outcomes that bring justice. It’s just not possible to publicise.”

“But why?”

“It’s restricted information. It goes directly to the Prime Minister.”

 “You know what it sounds like?” Troy took another swallow. His beer was slowly vanishing. “It sounds like some kind of UFO, Area 51 scenario.”

“Sure,” Granger replied evasively, her voice betraying nothing.

“I mean, a frog-man? He could be an alien.”

“He’s not an alien,” Granger interjected drily.

“Makes sense why it came to the attention of your lot though, I guess.” He drained his drink. Their chat hadn’t exactly been a mine of information, but it was enough for now. “Thanks for the vague overview of who the hell your department are supposed to be. We might as well head back to the office since I doubt I’ll get anything clearer out of you. I’ll drop you back at Causton; I have to get back to work before the mountain of paper in my in-tray takes over my entire desk.” He smiled, a peace offering of sorts.

“Do you mind checking the last listed homeowner?” Granger asked him, sliding into the passenger seat. “I’ll swing by tomorrow morning first thing to crosscheck.”

+

Hermione had flooed through to the Ministry and contacted Kingsley Shacklebolt, who, being the Minister for Magic, was her direct superior when it came to liaison with the muggle homicide department. Kingsley’s background as an Auror gave him a unique insight to how law enforcement worked while his position as Minister connected him to his muggle counterpart and allowed him to diplomatically arrange the transfer of cases across the border when required. It all worked quite neatly, for the most part.

But Hermione updated him on the current case with some disquiet. “The DI is curious. He keeps asking questions and isn’t happy with the lack of visibility when it comes to arrests and closed cases.”

“Will he cause trouble?”

“I doubt it, he’s just doing his job,” Hermione replied. “But it’s a point to consider now that so much information is available via muggle computer systems; we won’t be able to remove these cases as easily. There’ll be gaps in the system and that might start a whole new problem.”

“I’ll make sure to look into it,” Kingsley noted. “As for this case, it’s definitively magical?”

“Yes, I’m certain. The weapon was muggle, but the residence the portkey was activated in was magical. It was empty when we arrived and is glamoured to be abandoned. It has quite strong warding – Notice-Me-Not, and muggle-repelling, among others – I’ve got the Aurors running a check on the residence to see if we can link it to anyone specific but, so far, they’ve come up blank. No wizard or witch has ever used the address as a residence.”

Hermione pushed her report across the desk, flipped open onto the page they’d collated on the victim, Aster Ryecastle. He’d been a Ravenclaw and had graduated from Hogwarts in 1985, worked several jobs in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley but never really settled into anything concrete. He had no permanent home address; interviews with his past bosses had revealed a distractible young man with a constant stream of girlfriends (none of whom seemed to last more than a few weeks) and sticky fingers (till money had occasionally disappeared after his shifts)). He’d also been caught getting frisky with the wife of one of his co-workers, but the investigation by the Aurors came to nil as the co-worker had been living abroad with his parents for the last two years and there was no evidence to connect him to the current case.

Ryecastle had been registered as a Trainee Animagus (listing: green tree frog) and had been due to sit his final examination within the month. Given how close he was to completing his training, Hermione had surmised that his failure to transform must have been due to stress and lack of concentration. Given he’d also been shot, it was a workable conclusion.

“I’ll leave this file with you, Kingsley,” Hermione said. “Please let me know if the Aurors find anything useful. I’ll be in at Causton bright and early tomorrow to see what Troy has found and I’ll keep you abreast of anything relevant.”

+

Granger’s coffee was going cold; she hadn’t made a single move to drink it once they’d revealed the homeowner’s name.

Abel Rookwood.

Troy took in her carefully blank expression and immediately knew she was withholding something from the table. In a rare moment of tact, he chose not to call her out on it and waited until Barnaby had moved off to ask her, “I assume it’s one of yours?”

Granger shook her head slightly, worrying her lip with her teeth. “I think this just got a little more complicated, because we have no record of an Abel Rookwood. Other Rookwoods, yes, but Abel is new. I’m going to have to talk to my boss.”

+

“What do you mean there are no Abel Rookwoods on file? There has to be; it’s the only lead we have that makes sense,” Hermione cried in frustration.

“There’s only one living Rookwood left, and that’s Augustus Rookwood’s youngest sister, Annabelle,” said the young Auror Milfords. She was as frustrated as Hermione, having spent her entire morning investigating a person who didn’t seem to exist.

“Then I need to talk to Annabelle Rookwood,” Hermione decided, and dashed from the office, a scrap of paper with the witch’s address held tightly in her hand.

“Take someone with you!” the auror yelled after her.

“Fine,” Hermione said, swinging herself back into view. “Milfords, consider yourself on active field duty as of now.”

+

Annabelle Rookwood was in her thirties and, while not openly hostile, was not particularly keen about having an Auror and an MLO in her house. “You understand, I’m sure,” she said to Hermione as she poured them some tea, “how very confronting the last ten years have been for me. And now a surprise visit from the DMLE – Augustus is dead, what more do you want from me?”

“We’re not here about Augustus,” Hermione replied diplomatically from her seat on the chaise. “I want to ask you about Abel.”

She was diving in blind, hoping to startle an answer out of the older woman, but it worked a little too well. Rookwood dropped the entire pot of tea, her face draining of colour.

“What do you know of Abel?” she demanded, voice strained and her knuckles white on the buffet where she’d been preparing their tea. “How do you know of him at all?”

Hermione hadn’t been expecting such a reaction; she’d anticipated denial and a composed conversation. However, the woman appeared severely distressed to hear the man’s name.

“What relation is he to you, Ms Rookwood?” Hermione asked slowly.

Rookwood moved carefully to her own chair, gently perching on the end of it, the mess of spilt tea abandoned entirely. She stared at sadly Hermione with ghosts in her eyes as she answered: “He was my son.”

“Your son? Ms Rookwood, there are no records of his birth at all,” Hermione said, her brain running a million miles a minute as she tried to understand. The woman was lost in thought and Hermione glanced worriedly at Auror Milfords.

“That’s because none were made,” Rookwood said quietly. “He was my son, and they took him away.”

Hermione waited for Rookwood to continue and almost wished hadn’t.

“I was ten years old,” Annabelle Rookwood whispered.

Auror Milfords goggled at the woman in surprise but pulled herself together when Hermione shot a severe look her way. Rookwood remained oblivious, staring at her hands. This developing situation required careful management and Hermione wasn’t sure she was equipped to handle it; Milfords certainly wasn’t.

“What is this about?” asked Rookwood finally, a forlorn, lost expression on her face. “Have you found him – is he alive? They took Abel away while I was at Hogwarts and I was never told what had happened to him. And now they’re all gone.”

Hermione carefully considered her reply. “Ms Rookwood, would you please consider coming back with us and talking with a family liaison officer. It is a rather complicated matter, and this is a crucial development in an ongoing investigation.”

Annabelle Rookwood stood, her legs unsteady, so Milfords could Apparate her Side-Along back to the Ministry.

“Anything, if it leads me to my son,” she said in agreement, eyes taking up a fierce expression of determination.

+

Hermione sat in front of Kingsley’s desk, listening as he ran through the day’s discoveries aloud.

“Rookwood’s son, Abel? He’s twenty-two?”

“Yes.”

“And Annabelle Rookwood hasn’t had contact with him since he was less than a year old?”

“Correct, sir.”

Kingsley paced his office. “So, who placed the wards on the property?”

“They’re wards to protect family,” Hermione said slowly, mulling over the words. “From what we can gather, the family member that was supposed to get rid of their ‘ _squib shame’_ ,” Hermione said the words with extreme distaste, “couldn’t bear to complete their task and so kept him alive. Because he was a squib he wasn’t listed on the Hogwarts year list and because he was never registered with the Ministry or St Mungo’s, presumably due to his mother’s age and the awkward questions it would have dredged up, he’s slipped through the cracks and has absolutely no identity in wizarding Britain.” She twiddled a pen in her hands (working in muggle liaison had brought the convenience and luxury of ballpoints back into her world – she didn’t miss quills one iota). “DI Troy ran a check on Abel Rookwood. He has muggle identity: fostered by May Sotherby until he was eighteen; average school record; no previous convictions – not even a parking infraction.”

“Last known location?” asked Kingsley.

“The cottage in Badger’s Drift is the only place listed in his name, though he’s lived elsewhere as a tenant. The funny thing is that his name was put to the deeds on that property the same day he was taken from Annabelle. But there’s no real evidence of him ever living in the cottage. I had the Aurors go in after Troy’s team had done their bit.”

“Did Annabelle Rookwood confirm paternity?”

Hermione frowned. “Yes. It was her paternal uncle. According to Annabelle, he was also the one who made the call to remove Abel from her care.”

“This is the nasty side of the worst pureblood elitists, I’m sorry to say,” Kingsley admitted with a sigh. “They didn’t like to keep squibs around and they especially didn’t like diluting their bloodlines. Of course, this is an extreme case.”

Hermione glanced at her watch. “Sir, I’m due at Causton in ten minutes. We’ll be following up on locating Abel. I also want to focus on the possible connections between him and Ryecastle. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Keep up the good work, Hermione.” Kingsley rubbed at his eyes. “I’d rather be out there with you than stuck in here, but that’s the trade off for a stable government.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Or at least the illusion of one.”

+

Barnaby was missing from his desk when Hermione arrived; she gestured at it with her chin when Troy glanced up at her and his eyes swept over his boss’s work station.

“He’s interviewing Rookwood’s girlfriend,” he explained.

“That’s a new development,” Hermione said, surprised. “Who is she?”

“Hattie Gable, thirty-four, no priors, works part-time as a bank teller - they’ve only been seeing each other for eight weeks.”

“Any update on Rookwood’s whereabouts?”

“She said he’s been away on a work trip. Due back tonight – we’ll have some DC’s pick him up and bring him in. Funny thing, though, she already knew about the house.” Troy raised an eyebrow at her as he leaned back on his chair, a pen held casually in front of him. He clicked it annoyingly.

Hermione chewed anxiously on her lip as she made her way to her designated desk space across the room and pulled out an enormous file. It contained thousands of names, alphabetised and each one marked with PB, HB or M. What appeared to be a seven-year range was noted beside each name.

Confirming Hattie’s magical or muggle status was her next job – in what capacity did Hattie see the house. Was it a ruin in her eyes, or a perfect little cottage? Hermione flipped to the names beginning with G.

There was one listed Gable: Henrietta – a muggleborn. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Quickly, she flipped to Ryecastle’s entry. Her eyes widened.

She marched up to Troy, the hefty tome in hand. Thumping it down onto the table, she said quickly, “I’ve got a lead, but I need to see Gable and I need to see her alone. It’s imperative. I don’t care if Barnaby isn’t done with her yet; we haven’t got time to lose.”

Troy discreetly extricated a bewildered Barnaby from the interview room, and after a brief, hushed discussion, Hermione won her private audience with Gable.

The woman was facing away from the door and didn’t look around when Hermione entered. Immediately warding the room with her wand, that she had carefully shoved up her sleeve en route to the interview rooms, Hermione crossed the room and made a show of pressing the recording button. The magic directed at it had already ruined the machine’s capacity to record, but she knew the camera was fixed on the desk in the centre of the room and had therefore not captured her entrance or the strange movement she had made with an eleven inch stick.

Hermione had placed several fail-safes in the wards, including anti-apparition wards, muggle-repelling spells and magical dampeners. It would affect her ability to perform magic as well, but her self-defence skills even without a wand were elite now that she’d had various levels of training on both sides of the border. She would be able to hold her own against an unarmed woman, witch or not.

She walked around the desk and into full view of her fellow witch.

“Hello, Henrietta. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

The moment Hattie Gable looked up the colour drained from her face. Hermione Granger was a household name in the magical community, and she was almost as recognisable as Harry, with her wild hair and famous friends (she’d never live down Viktor’s interest in her, even if they were only friends now). It was a guilty response, though Hermione knew her battle had only started as the witch moved her gaze to the table and pressed her lips tightly together.

 “You’d do better to talk, you know. I know you know who I am, and I know you’re a witch.” Hermione maintained her standing position and crossed her arms. “The room is warded, so the only way you’ll be leaving today is by cooperating with the investigation.”

“Isn’t using magic here in breach of the Statute?” Hattie said sullenly.

“Given I’m here in an official capacity, no.”

Hattie glanced up at her nervously.

“Has DCI Barnaby made you aware of the situation we are investigating?” A nod. “Aster Ryecastle. Not the most inspiring of people, but talented enough to be managing Animagus training. A shame he didn’t live long enough to succeed,” Hermione continued. “Barnaby said you claimed not to know him. Interesting, given you attended Hogwarts at the same time.”

Hattie glared at the table, caught in a lie. It would have succeeded had Hermione not been on the case; there was no record of Ryecastle in the muggle archives until now.

“Would you like to amend your statement?”

Hattie ignored her, but Hermione kept talking, trying to entice the other woman to speak – an angry response would no doubt reveal a great deal.

“Did you know the Ministry keeps a record of all it’s citizens? Pureblood, half-blood, muggleborn, we’re all in there. It lists quite a lot of information. Think of it like the muggle CIA. For example, I know you grew up on a farm, with your two brothers, your father, stepmother and grandfather. I know you went to a muggle primary school – Atherlsey Park, I believe? And then at eleven, you came to Hogwarts and did as well as any other Hufflepuff in your year. Your best class was History of Magic. We muggleborns do tend to enjoy it – if we can survive Professors Binns, of course.” Hermione paused. “There are a lot of facts in your file, Henrietta, but the one that really interests me right now is that you can handle a gun.” Hattie was pale again and wouldn’t look up. “That places you in an interesting position, don’t you think?”

Hermione unclasped her arms and leaned on the desk. “If we go to your flat, Henrietta, will we find a gun?”

Hattie was blinking furiously, but still refused to look at the young witch interrogating her. Hermione sighed.

Crossing to the door, she opened it slightly. Troy and Barnaby were both still there, waiting for an update. “Nothing solid yet,” Hermione told them. “But I have reason to believe the murder weapon is at the residence of Henrietta Gable. If you can please arrange a warrant so we can execute a search of the property, that would be appreciated.” She closed the door again while her instructions were enacted.

“No one ever got a lighter sentence for withholding information from the police,” she commented idly to Hattie. “And it certainly won’t look good when they find the murder weapon in your house. Whatever was your issue with him that could only be solved with a bullet? He wasn’t an angel by any means, but surely there were better ways of dealing with the situation.”

Hattie shoved herself back from the table and into a standing position. “You don’t understand!” she yelled, hands tangling in her hair. “He was going to ruin everything!”

Hermione stood up straighter. Here it was.

“Abe doesn’t know about magic,” Hattie said quietly, palms pressed over her eyes in frustration. “Originally, I assumed he just shared the last name, with no relation to the wizarding family, but, when he showed me the house, I realised he was actually a squib and he had absolutely no idea about his true family. I mean, they cast him out pretty thoroughly; I couldn’t find any record of him in any of the pureblood family histories. They just dumped him on his own in the muggle foster system, isn’t that crazy? All because he couldn’t do magic.”

“They could have done worse than that under the same reasoning,” Hermione reminded her softly. “How does Ryecastle come into it?”

“I saw him. One night, I was driving home and saw the lights on in the house. There was someone moving around upstairs. It made me so angry because the house is Abe’s. It was trespassing. That house is the only thing his family ever gave him, beyond a name, and that arse Ryecastle was using it as his smuggling base!”

Hattie tucked her arms in close, hugging herself.

“I kept watch for a few weeks, and it was always like clockwork. Three nights a week, bloody Aster Ryecastle would appear with whatever he’d stolen that day – he was always nicking stuff at Hogwarts, I guess he made a career out of it – and then ship it out to his buyers; and he always looked so bloody smug. I talked to a few people and found out that he’s been making a name for himself in Knockturn Alley the last few years. Sometimes he’d come back to count his money; none of it come by honestly. And one night, I just lost it. I decided to confront him. I’d been at dad’s and we’d been rabbiting, so I had my gun. I don’t even know why I brought it up with me; I hadn’t planned to go up there and shoot him. I think I was just scared of being without it. Ryecastle was always a bit of a loose cannon at school and I was about to bust his hideout.”

She worried her lip a little before continuing, “It was just before he usually turned up. He always seemed to arrive via portkey. Apparition used to make him vomit when we went for our licences in seventh year. Anyway, I snuck into the house and waited. It gave him such a fright to see me there when he arrived. I told him he shouldn’t be there and that his gig was up – that he was trespassing, and how I knew all his goods were stolen. He couldn’t figure out how I’d found him, or what my purpose was – he knew I wasn’t an Auror. I stupidly told him about Abel – that it was his house and that he might be a squib, but it was still private property. That was a mistake. He latched onto it and started to threaten Abel if I told anyone about his hideout and his little business operation. He must’ve thought he had me in a chokehold, because he got all self-satisfied when I froze up at his threats against Abel. He could be nasty when he wanted. And you know what he said to me? The absolute prick. He said, ‘Good talk, Gobbles – remember, Abel’s continued safety is in your hands, make good choices’ and I think that was what finally set me off. He’d been a bully at school and bully ever since and I realised, at that moment, that I could stop him altogether. I pulled out the gun and when he saw what I was doing he panicked. He tried to transform; I thought I’d accidentally bespelled him instead of shooting when he started to turn green.” Hattie looked helplessly at Hermione. “He disappeared before I could tell if I’d hit him. His portkey was word-activated.”

If Hermione was surprised by any part of the account, she hid it well. “Henrietta Gable, do you, of your own free will, stand behind this account and agree to it as a true statement of your acts pertaining to the death of Aster Ryecastle?”

Hattie’s eyes widened and she glanced behind her. Out of view of the cameras, a floating scroll hovered, every word from Hattie’s confession documented for DMLE. The witch’s eyes widened imperceptibly, and a sharp intake of breath broke the silence of the room before she admitted shakily, “Yes, that’s the truth of it.”

The words glowed gold. It was now considered a binding document.

“You know what the absolute worst thing about this is?” Hattie said to Hermione, sounding utterly resigned. “I really like Abel. And he can’t know about any of this without me breaking the Statue.”

Hermione looked at the woman. She looked smaller now, sunken somehow, as if the admission had deflated her.

“Can I at least see him one more time?”

“I think that will be up to Abel, Hattie.”

Hermione closed the interview and took out from her pocket what looked like a piece of string, twisted into a figure eight. She looped each of the circles over the other witch’s hands and the string tightened and vanished. It effectively blocked Hattie’s magic, rendering her entirely muggle while she was transported back to the DMLE.

First, though, Hermione was going to have to explain to Barnaby and Troy that they weren’t going to be able to read the confession, nor were they able to accompany Hermione and Hattie to Hermione’s headquarters. Kingsley would send a couple of Aurors via town car to collect them– Hermione prayed that he would have enough sense to send ones that were at least passingly familiar with muggles and their technology.

The greater difficulty would be the Rookwoods themselves. The Statue was murky when it came to squibs as some aspects included them as muggles, while others accepted them as simply a variation of witch or wizard. It was a delicate matter, given Abel’s history, or lack thereof, and Hermione was grateful that it wouldn’t be her having to deal with it. They would need a specialist team of family liaison workers and lawyers and, of course, a handful of psychologists on hand, too, to help manage the situation. Abel had several unhappy discoveries ahead, and for his mother it would be either a great joy or an unmitigated disaster, pending on her son’s reactions. Hattie had really ruined all their lives with her hasty trigger pulling.

+

The two Aurors had already settled Hattie in the vehicle, and Hermione was shaking hands with Barnaby and Troy.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more transparent,” she said wryly to Troy.

He snorted. “I doubt that. But I’ll accept the fingerprints, weapon possession and a signed confession as a safe conclusion.”

“Nonetheless, I truly appreciated your assistance, especially given your earlier reserves regarding special branch,” she told him. “It’s invaluable having a good team on the ground. Especially since we tend to be dropped in and out of cases and rarely work with the same unit twice. This has been one of the smoothest cases – even with your early doubts!”

“I enjoyed working with you,” Troy admitted. “If you’re ever in town, swing by and we can have another pint.”

“I’ll do that,” Hermione said, a sweet smile gracing her face.

As the team from special branch drove away, Barnaby grinned at his sergeant.

“Swing by for a pint? It seems you’ve had a change of heart, Troy!”

“She was very professional,” Troy said archly, his cheeks turning pink. Barnaby chortled at him and clapped him on the shoulder.

 

 


End file.
